House of All Nations

by Christina Stead

  ‘When we’ve finished letting the cat out of the bag,’ murmured Michel, ‘we’ll be left with a fine stink.’

  Guipatin laughed, ‘The old sultans used to punish a faithless wife by tying her in a sack with two wildcats and sinking her in the Bosporus. Imagine the scene inside the sack in the last few moments! Inventive, the Turks! Jules’s idea is to sink Aristide with two double-agents—’ William was the only one who did not give a nervous laugh: he said, ‘Double-agents can double again. Aristide won’t care what domestic charges you have against him: he’s got more on us. He may know the whole story. Get the books or keep him dangling, and in the meantime turn him over to the police.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Income-tax fraud by private denunciation,’ said William calmly. ‘I forced his desk and got his private accounts. I also found some letters from the Argentine he would find hard to explain. And he has a bank account in Marseille. I should have had him shadowed all this time.’

  William had not forced his desk. William had skeleton keys for all locks in the bank. But he was not going to admit this to his brother Jules.

  Jacques Manray entered breathless. Into their spiderweb of anxiety he brought a drop of hope, perhaps only his bright-colored face and clear blue eyes. He told his story again. He added, ‘He’s been acting funny for a week.’

  Jules brusqued his confidence, ‘The Comte de Guipatin has discovered that Raccamond bribed Smith, the new London clerk, to get the lists of clients holding bonds abroad in our branches.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ Jacques did not seem overcome by surprise.

  They gave him some standing instructions. Manray was to occupy himself normally in the board room; he was to ring on the interphone twice if Raccamond arrived, four times if the police inspectors came in, but without saying a word either through the phone or downstairs.

  As they sat there, the telephone rang again and Jules took it up, ‘Who? Ah, wait a minute.’ He covered the mouthpiece and murmured, ‘Here’s our man. Michel, take the other earpiece: I want you to get his state of mind. Hallo. Is that you, Raccamond? You were away a devil of a time. How is your son’s malfeasance, or whatever? … What? You have my books! Who gave them to you? What are you doing with them? … Bring those books here at once. Those books are mine, mine, my private books! … You had better come straight over to the office and bring those books with you … And bring the books or I don’t talk business with you … Well, send them to me at once; or better I’ll send for them: those are stolen goods … You’ll what? … Don’t make me laugh. They’ll—What!’ Jules puffed with laughter. ‘Don’t be a fool, Aristide,’ he said, suddenly kind. ‘Come over here tomorrow morning and talk to me privately, or if you like I’ll come and see you tonight. No, tomorrow is better. Let’s see what sort of a cock-and-bull story someone’s been handing you … You’re crazy, Aristide! You come over here and bring the books—if you’ve got them!’ He jammed down the telephone and at once his face blackened with anger.

  Alphendéry looked nervous; ‘Bad!’ he said to them all.

  ‘He says he’s in bed, he can’t come over,’ said Jules. “I’ll bet he’s having a conference with his lawyer.’

  ‘Who is his lawyer?’ asked William.

  ‘Let’s see: he had a fight with a tenant of his and—’ Alphendéry started up. ‘Yes, I remember: his lawyer—Maître Lallant! Carrière’s lawyer.’

  ‘He used to be Carrière’s man,’ Guipatin said dubiously.

  ‘The weasel!’ Jules cried, with contempt.

  ‘I don’t think he’s a real blackmailer,’ Alphendéry explained. ‘I think he’s terribly startled at what he’s found out: he thinks we have never put through a single share to any bourse in the world. He says the telegrams of confirmation we have from Legris and Company in Amsterdam and Stewart in London are a put-up job. He’s sure of that, because Legris kicked him out yesterday.’

  ‘Not a real blackmailer? And how to explain the accountant pushed into our Brussels office?’ Jules sneered.

  ‘He couldn’t put in an accountant to look at books of whose existence he was ignorant,’ objected Alphendéry, unconsciously pleading for Raccamond.

  ‘Let me go and see him tonight, not you,’ Jean de Guipatin suggested in the end, and this was agreed upon.

  Jules asked for Manray on the interphone again, cried, ‘What!’ and put the earpiece down, ‘Jacques has gone out: what does that mean?’

  * * *

  Scene Eighty-three: Manray’s Dilemma

  Aristide lay on the couch in the living room, in a dressing gown. Marianne sat in an armchair beside him.

  ‘Don’t come near, Mr. Manray: it’s influenza. I don’t know how he managed to get here. He collapsed as soon as he got into the house: forty of fever.’

  But the business could not wait. They had telephoned Manray at once to come quickly to the house in the Rue du Docteur-Blanche, because they regarded him as an intimate friend.

  ‘Bertillon is nothing but a swindler, a little Kreuger!’

  ‘You can’t say that without proof, Mme. Raccamond!’

  They showed him the books, bringing them out from under the covers on Aristide’s couch: Aristide would not have them away from his sight. ‘Complete contre-partie accounts, showing that the clients were regularly sold out and had no positions at all when they thought they owned shares.’

  Manray, who had seen some such maneuvers, was embarrassed. ‘It is within their rights, Mr. Raccamond, to protect themselves if the market looks bad.’

  Marianne said firmly, ‘In most, in almost all cases, the orders to buy and sell shares were never sent through. They were done on the books at prices fixed by the bank for the clients.’

  Marianne did all the talking and Aristide weakly agreed from time to time. Aristide moaned and breathed heavily, ‘It is terrible, terrible.’

  ‘These books show that the clients have been swindled for years.’

  ‘Well?’ said Jacques.

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘How do I know it is true, Mme. Raccamond?’

  ‘We have the proofs, Mr. Manray.’

  ‘How do I know you have if you won’t let me look in the books? You show me the covers. Brussels A1, B1 … that tells me nothing. I know there are bloc accounts called Brussels A1, B1: we execute orders for them.’

  ‘And this book?’ She held up a large book labeled London Finance Corporation.

  ‘We have a large client with that name. We do many orders for it.’

  ‘What is that client?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It is the Banque Bertillon contre-partie account.’

  ‘How do I know?’

  Marianne Raccamond leaned forward. ‘Mr. Manray, why should we deceive you? Why should we bring you here?’

  ‘You say Bertillon is a swindler, but you show me no proofs: I think it strange.’

  Marianne was irritated. ‘That’s not your affair, Mr. Manray. We have those proofs. Let it suffice that we can and will go to the Procurator of the Republic tomorrow if nothing happens!’

  ‘What can happen?’ Jacques was confused.

  Bertillon had told him Raccamond had stolen clients’ books but Raccamond pretended that he had taken the bank’s own books. Manray imagined that Raccamond would demand an explanation: it had not yet occurred to him that Raccamond would blackmail Bertillon.

  Marianne murmured something, but she had not got her point, and she pressed the dubious Manray again. ‘Mr. Manray, what would you do if you found out this were true?’

  ‘If it is true, I’m going to Jules Bertillon and I’ll say, “Keep your salary. Mr. Raccamond has told me about the contre-partie and the fixing of prices for clients, that you never bought or sold at all. It’s no business of mine, but I must resign.” That’s all.’ Jacques was angry for v
arious reasons. He had not sorted out his reasons.

  Marianne started. ‘No, Manray, not a word to Jules Bertillon. You can’t do that, don’t you see!’

  ‘Why not? Why can’t I?’

  ‘No, no, I forbid you absolutely to do that, Mr. Manray.’

  ‘You forbid me? Look, Mme. Raccamond, I don’t understand at all what you’re getting at. What business is it of yours? Why won’t you tell Mr. Bertillon? It’s bizarre.’

  Marianne explained energetically, ‘Don’t you see, if he knows, he can make some move? Those rich men are determined. He’d do anything to get the books back. He’d give anything—’

  Jacques flushed. ‘If it’s blackmail you mean,’ he said rising and taking his hat, ‘I’d better get out of here.’ He left without saying good-by.

  * * *

  Scene Eighty-four: The Honorable Nations

  Ordinarily they all stayed until the cables from the American market ceased at 8 p.m. or a little later, if the ticker was behind time. This evening they put Urbain Voulou and the telegraph girls in charge and went off to Jules’s house to dine together. As they were leaving, at about 6.45 p.m., Mouradzian the Armenian came to the door and asked for an interview with Jules. The other two, glad of the interruption, went out to confabulate and dash water in their faces. Mouradzian sat down gingerly, in one of the armchairs. He was small, dark, and evil-looking.

  ‘Mr. Bertillon, I speak to you as man to man. I have been a long time in business. There is a man in your employ who is damaging your credit.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Jules. ‘Who is it?’

  Mouradzian moved uneasily. ‘I wish to name no names: it would be wrong of me to inculpate a colleague. But take measures to protect yourself, Mr. Bertillon: For some months, a colleague of mine has come up to me and insinuated that this was a contre-partie house. He has doubtless gone to others with the same speech. Only two days ago this colleague came to me, seeming very much tormented or angry, and said that he would shortly have the proofs that this is a contre-partie house and that he would tell the interested parties that they were being cheated. He asked me to withdraw my clients from this house and to take them, with his, to another house. Mr. Bertillon, I have been a long time in this business. Please listen to my advice. Do not employ Frenchmen in stock-exchange business.’

  Jules was surprised at this. ‘Why not, Mouradzian?’ He was as serious as the Armenian.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr. Bertillon, because men of that type and of that class are untrustworthy in stock-exchange business. They are ambitious, jealous, and they think of nothing but sapping and blackmail. They are rotten with love of money and ambition. They will destroy anyone who stands in their way. If they can’t do it one way they will do it another way. I know. I am very old in this business. Mr. Bertillon, I have been loyal here. Please, please, take only Levantines in this business. Levantines are honorable: Turks, Syrians, Cypriotes, Greeks, Phanariotes, my own nation, even Georgians, Jews, Arabs, Roumanians, Persians are better than Frenchmen. We cannot betray you: we are honorable nations. We have been trusted for centuries! We have fulfilled all the duties of honorable financial posts for centuries. I do not wish to speak of myself; but, incidentally, my own family for five centuries has been respected in finance. And what were the punishments if we failed! I speak from a base, because a disputative point of view. There was no mercy if we failed. Employ only Easterners, Mr. Bertillon. They are not jealous of you. They understand your business. They are not frittering away their time trying to pry into your secrets. They do not care what are your secrets, as long as you do business yourself. In this venal democracy of money-changers and tip-beggars, your compatriots are your foes, those who want to see you trodden underfoot. Success breeds hatred. I say this because I have lived in the East and seen different things. We try to do our own business. Weed out your compatriots, Mr. Bertillon: they are treacherous and hypocritical.’

  ‘Thanks, Mouradzian,’ said Jules, cautiously and without affection. ‘I don’t see how I can get rid of my Frenchmen. This is a French bank.’

  ‘I understand very well. But I say—a man here is trying to ruin you. You have a blackmailer here. I cannot name him: I can only say, he is here.’

  ‘Mouradzian,’ Jules said pleasantly to the old man, ‘do you think we bucket the orders? I know people say it.’

  Mouradzian shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is not my business, Monsieur. That is your business. For myself, I don’t spread rumors.’

  Jules tapped with the paper knife on the table. ‘We do contre-partie, you know.’

  Mouradzian lifted his intelligent crafty eyes to Jules. ‘I always thought so, Monsieur. Otherwise, how would you have kept afloat and stayed solvent in this crisis? You have done your clients a favor. I find myself well placed here. Contre-partie in times like this is nothing but an insurance policy—and one that will be paid. But some, sons of artisans, are too thick to understand that!’ He looked at the carpet with contempt. ‘And such say that one is bankrupt, although he pays all claims!’

  ‘Stick with me, Mouradzian, and we’ll do well together,’ Jules finished jocularly, leaning back in his chair, elegant and distant. Mouradzian bowed and retired. Jules got up sleekly, called the others: ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘What did the little fellow want?’

  ‘To warn me against Raccamond: he did it nicely. Raccamond asked him to withdraw his accounts; says we are going bankrupt and we do contre-partie. That fellow has to be wiped out.’

  * * *

  Scene Eighty-five: Jacques Returns

  William expostulated, ‘He’s been living in a fairy world: every time the market went up or down against his clients, I paid out and paid out, making up losses, and all to prevent his having a nervous breakdown.’

  Jean de Guipatin looked worn now. ‘You shouldn’t have done it, William; it’s an option on trouble. The man calculates that there’s something wrong, if you can afford to do that; for he reasons, “Then how do they make their money?” Follows a stretch of spying and blackmailing. Or the fellow is so stupid that he thinks money grows in banks and when he’s undeceived and he finds it has to be made, and that he’s been living in Cockaigne, he goes mad. There’s probably a bit of both in Raccamond.’

  ‘Where is he? Where is Manray?’ cried Jules restlessly, unable to bear the anxiety any more. The telephone rang. Manray was downstairs and asked to see Mr. Bertillon alone.

  ‘Come up!’ He said to them, ‘Manray knows something.’

  Manray looked round at the company when he came in. ‘I must see you alone: it’s urgent,’ he said low and earnestly. His round face looked tired, too.

  ‘If it’s about Raccamond, you can tell everything: we know all about it.’

  Manray was embarrassed but he said manfully, ‘Mr. Bertillon, I just went over to Raccamond’s house, and,’ his voice fell, ‘he looked wretched. I know everything that he has to tell. He has a lot of books there, the London Finance Corporation, and all, and he says they’re blinds, for the bank to sell out the investments of its own clients. He says no shares were done in the markets, only written on our books.’

  Jules cried, ‘What the hell did you go down there for, anyway? I told you to wait in the board room.’

  ‘Mr. Bertillon, what else could I do? As soon as I got downstairs, he was on the phone. I rang off, telling him I was busy. He rang up again, then she spoke and they kept insisting, “Come right away, most important, secret, for the bank; otherwise it would mean ruin.” They said not to tell you: I was scared.’

  ‘You had no right going down there without telling me. What did he say to you?’

  ‘It was the woman who kept talking all the time. He hardly said a word, and when he began to speak she shut him up and turned to me and said, “No, this is the situation.” She’s the real Raccamond, Mr. Bertillon.’

  He told them the conversation he had had with them.
Bertillon said, ‘And are you going to resign, Jacques.’

  Jacques hesitated, ‘No, Mr. Bertillon. I didn’t know what to do. It was all news to me; I was confused, and I was trying to make out why they wanted me over there to tell me all that. I couldn’t make out why the woman was doing all the talking. I said that to gain time. And I didn’t know what I was going to do. But I didn’t want to play whatever game they had.’ He hesitated, looking round the circle, said in a lower but firm tone, ‘Raccamond’s sick but that wife of his is determined: either they want to ruin the bank, or they want blackmail. I can’t make out. Maybe Carrière is behind him. He used to be Carrière’s man.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jules. ‘No, no: Carrière wants us to pay him, doesn’t he? Listen, Jacques, are you going to stick by me?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Bertillon,’ said Jacques in a low tone. ‘I don’t see what else I can do.’ He realized that Alphendéry and Comte de Guipatin were standing by Jules. Jacques was worried, though; he got up the courage to say, ‘Only, I’d just like to know—if what he says is true.’

  ‘You’ve given us prices yourself, Jacques,’ said Alphendéry.

  ‘I know, I know,’ worried Jacques, ‘only’ (almost to himself) ‘I didn’t know it was so ba—so much. But the rest—that you never bought or sold at all?’

  ‘No,’ Jules reassured him, ‘in that he’s just gone clean off his head. Don’t bother about that.’

  Jacques thought of something else. ‘They’re going to ring me again tomorrow and make another appointment with me: they say they’ll show me the books, they think. I don’t know what they want me for. I told them I couldn’t stay long this afternoon, because there was work to do. They kept saying, “You’re working for nothing: it’s all a swindle.” What shall I do?’

  ‘Put him off.’

  Jacques worried, ‘He might go to others.’

  ‘Listen, Jacques: he’s been to about a dozen people already. He spoke to Mouradzian two months ago, and since. Mouradzian came here and warned me in his own way. If he wants you so badly, he must have something in mind. Be nice to him but coax him along till we find out his game.’